For lack of a better word
by smarticus.witherspoon
Summary: Alternate timeline. Lackadaisy is never raided, things just float along. Rocky's will is slowly ground into a fine paste. With no friends and an abusive job he's bound to snap eventually. Chapter .3 of (?)
1. Chapter 1

The speakeasy hadn't been the kindest place recently. I knew this in part because the band; an ensemble of guys probably not rough enough to tip over a cow, were now tasked with unloading shipments from the battered truck that somehow made it back to the café again. "Why are we doing this again." Zib asked, an extra layer of irritation coating his usual rash tone. The Bassist and trumpeter chipped in with indifferent grunts. They didn't really care; at least they were getting paid.

"Because Miss May told us to, Zib."

"I don't exactly see her eager to help."

"Well yeah, that's cuz she's 5'5 and drunk enough to call me Atlas."

That was another thing. Mitzi had been hitting the bottle pretty hard for the past few weeks. From what I could glean, downriver supply had been raided, and the supply from the country was being encroached by larger gangs with classier names. I didn't really see how using up all our supply would really help us get more, but I wasn't really in charge of things. For all I knew this place would be on fire constantly without her guiding it. I just wish she'd quit.

"Just move them down these stairs and the lunk will get em' when he comes back."

"IF he comes back." Zib said with a smirk.

"Ughe. Just do what she said so you can get back to sleazing it up at the bar."

Zib seemed like an asshole to anyone that didn't know him, but we all knew it was in jest. His whining had almost become as relaxing as his music, albeit not at all. I knew we were all under pressure, what with being paid less and less each month and the constant threat of being perforated looming over our heads every time someone came through the door and ordered some toast. We were all entitled to a little bit of bitching.

I grabbed another case from the back and walked it down the stairs to the damp, surprisingly warm cavern entrance. We'd been at it for about half an hour now, and the stack was getting sizeable. It still wasn't as big as it used to be though. On the way back up, I noticed the other two guys were sitting on some crates, slouching like a king.

"So you guys are done already?" I asked.

"Well yeah." The bassist replied, "We didn't spend all our time fucking around with our makeup like Zib over there." He pointed at him as he walked by, and Zib replied by sticking his tongue out, striking a sexy pose and biting his lip. "You're just mad cuz' I'm pretty." He replied in a sultry tone.

"Yeah, that's about the only damn reason May keep you 'round, twinkletoes."

Taking a step toward Zib, I grabbed his tail and yanked him sideways, taking my free hand and cupping his asscheek. "And I think I found the other reason too!" I said, barely containing my chuckling.

Zib pirouetted, putting his hands on his hips and looking down on me with a pouty face. "That is no way to treat a lady!"

"Yeah, but it's the only way to treat a WHORE!" the bassist said, bursting into laughter. It was pretty infectious, and we all were laughing and giggling for the next few minutes. It was times like this that made you forget how many times I was shot at this week. Or punch. Or stabbed. The little things; the company of some cool guys. We probably couldn't go through hell together but we were surviving purgatory.

With half my help gone, and Zib being about as useful as a bag of wet tissues, it took probably an hour to unload the rest of the stacks in the truck. It almost seemed like he was going slow just to piss me off. Well, he probably was anyway, to get back at me for the molestation. I swear I even heard him dragging it once while I was still in the cave. I came back up the stairs and saw him slouched over the box, face pressed into the concrete floor. He was just sitting there, breathing in and making a noise through his lips like a card stuck in a bike's spokes. I was more than irritated at him, so I walked over and kicked him in the hip.

"The hell is wrong with you?" I said rashly, his face still buried in the floor.

"I'm dying." He said, finishing with a huff. He didn't even twitch a muscle.

"We're all dying, stop being a drama queen about it."

His only response this time was an odd, longwinded and alternating rattle, almost guttural. Most people would try CPR after hearing it, but I knew it was just him making molehills again. I kicked him in the same spot, harder this time. He fell off the crate and landed on his back, his hat rolling off somewhere. He took an arm and extended it, pointing at me in an almost hypnotically slow fashion, fingers and arm slouched as if to add an exclamation point to his tyraid of "I'm tired".

"What is with you and my ass today." He asked with an oddly serene face. No… Not serene. Was that his serious face? I could never tell.

"I need you to get said ass moving. You're my only help right now."

"Yeah, well, do you really needa get it moving by raping me?"

"Oh come off it you fucking drama queen."

"Hey, I'm not the one trying to get off here."

I heard spittake laughter from someplace over by the crates. At least someone was enjoying this. I dunno. Maybe I should join in on this little charade. "Serious" was a concept that only seemed to bounce off Zib most of the time, as long as his life wasn't in danger; and I certainly wasn't brawn enough to choke him to death. I put my palm on my forehead and rubbed the temples, dragging it down and slathering the rest of my face. Normally I was game for stuff like this but I really wasn't in the mood recently. My jaw clenched, and I put one hand on my hip like he did earlier.

"Okay fine. I like your ass. Men like lady's asses. Happy?"

I could see a stupid grin crack over his face. Yeah, that's what he wanted. He was happy. But god forbid he do something yet. He took the arm he had in the air and extended it further, reaching over and rubbing the inside of my thigh, down the knee and back up again. He did his best sexy laugh, and said:

"Oh my, I do quite understand that sir. But you see, you can't just go to the ass of any woman you fancy and start touching it around like that. It's quite rude you know. You have to get to know her first."

With that, he finally sat up, putting his head to the side of my hip and looking up at me with googly eyes. "How's about you uh… Do a lady a favor, and take some of this work off my shoulders, huh?"

I swear his rubbing got dangerously close to my pelvis somewhere around "Favor", and the way he said it didn't exactly cull my suspicions. I shook him off my leg, tipping him back to the floor with a flumf.

"Or; how's about you get back to work, lest I tell miss May who's been stealing the bottles of vodka out of her office."

His eyes became little o's when I said that, frowning and looking to the side. Yeah, it was a bit of a low blow, but the only nerves he had were all below the belt. To be honest though, I wouldn't tell her even if Zib didn't do a damn thing. With the way she's been acting lately I had no idea if she would have him shot in an alleyway somewhere. Her kindness seemed to have just evaporated with the supply of alcohol. While I was irritated at him, I didn't want him killed. I picked up the crate he had and carried it back down to the rest of them.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

We were almost back to the bar now. The caves were kinda big; easy to get lost in, but we had a sort of road map in our head. The ground had a way of alternating between rock and dirt, a concept lost on me. I dunno why I was bothering to ponder about it. I guess I was just kinda bored; the walk was long, and I was trying to get my mind off something. The band wasn't the chattiest bunch and I was still on awkward terms with Zib after what I'd said.

It took another few minutes to get to where we were going, and by then my brain was in a sea of fuzzles. I was about ready to snap at anyone; luckily the bar was empty. As to why I counted myself lucky that we were out of business didn't strike me yet. Us entering increased the population by at least %500. I saw Mitzi sitting at the bar, cheek slouched into the wood and one hand cupping a brandy glass of something. Probably not brandy. Probably motor oil and rotten apples. I really dunno. The only other person breathing in here was the pianist, who'd wrecked his ankle or something. He also made an excuse about "Delicate fingers." Horatio was probably standing diligent on the other side of the door.

We split ways; me going over to Mitzi and the guys going over to bean on the chairs by the stage. I walked over and took a stool next to her, shaking her back to pluck her out of the stupor she was in. She didn't respond, but after a few seconds, she let out a defeated sigh; a quick in-out breath that told me she was at least conscious.

"Hey… Miss. We did the thing you asked."

I rubbed her back and patted a few times, doing my best to seem comforting but not make it look I was hitting on her. It took a while, but after a few seconds of silence from her, she stirred, resting her head on her arm.

"Thank you, Atlas, honey. I hope the goons weren't too much of an issue."

So she was still hammered. Not like I needed to confirm it, but that sure did. She probably couldn't stand; let alone see more than an inch in front of her face. I really didn't want to carry her up to her room again but it's not like she's recover from this in 3 hours, and nobody else was gonna volunteer. I sighed too; just like she did, but I didn't really notice. Her booze injection had placed a lot more responsibilities on me than I was used to, and pay had gone the same direction as her mood. I mean, I used to just sing. Now I was a step away from being a very incompetent hitman/contraband runner. I don't know why I haven't just gotten another job yet. Well, I did know. While I was an incompetent hitman, I was also an incompetent everything else. Violin was about the only thing that didn't explode in my face, and the options were pretty limited even within that. I also had a tendency to alienate people, or at least that's how it seemed. Not even my cousin would talk to me anymore.

I realize I'd been silent for a while now; eyes fixated on a tile of floor behind the bar. My existential musings had captured all my attention. I rubbed her back again and said to her, eyes still stuck on that tile:

"Yeah hun… They weren't a problem. I should probably go and check up on them though, just in case."

"You go do that baby. I'll keep watch on th' supply."

With that, she took a swig of the whatever in her glass, wincing as it washed down. I looked away, not much in the mood to look at her slipping away like that. I slipped away myself, back to the guys sitting by the stage. By the looks of it they hadn't budged an inch since they flopped down in those big loafers. One had himself spread eagle almost, body in a large X as he studied the intricacies of the ceiling. The other guy was actually lying down across the arm of the thing, his 6'3 stature more than enough to drape all the way, making his head loll about as he had the floor covered. Almost like clockwork, Zib had eyes on the walls. Darty eyes. And wringy hands. And bitey lips. Perched on the edge of his chair, his eyes scanned all across the room, never seeming to really focus on one thing for more than a moment or two. While it was normal for him to leave his shirt unbuttoned, it seemed he'd opened a few new holes since I last checked. A rather annoying tap was heard, and I found it to be his heel as he clacked it down on the floor. His searching eyes eventually found something; namely, me. I notice them dilate a little, and he just sorta stopped. Froze, even. He stared like that, deer in headlights, for I dunno how long before scuttling up enough courage to remember how his body worked. He stole a look over shoulder and then got up suddenly, closing the distance to me. Extending an arm, he wrapped it over my shoulder and drug me over to a corner of the stage, away from the guys and out of earshot of the pianist. I was about ready to ask him what this was about, but I was interrupted by a raspy intake, his breathing almost sounding like he'd been crying or something.

"Please don't."

That's all he said. Nothing else. He barely had the courage to even look up at me. He'd flick a look up at me, notice I was looking back, stare down at the floor, and repeat.

"The booze?" I said after a pause.

"Yeah."

I gave a puff; Jesus, he was a wreck. I thought I was the worried one too. I just wanted him to cut the shit, but this…

"Zib, f-ahhh…" I rubbed my temples, mashing the skin in some magical way that managed stress. Usually he didn't take this shit seriously. He'd just shrug it off and "Yeah right." I'd never even thought of actually handing his ass over.

My lack of words seemed to have irritated him, and he grabbed my shoulders and roughly twirled me around to face the bar. I saw Mitzi. Still there. Still slouched over herself. Glass still in hand. I could describe a morgue as more lively.

He'd been rubbing my shoulder with his thumb the whole time; I dunno if it was just a tic but I started to notice. He was still staring at Mitzi, long after I stopped. His eyes were glazed, like he was deep in some memory somewhere. I tapped his chest once or twice to get his attention, and he jerked his head over to me.

"Rocky…"

"Don't worry about it. I wasn't serious."

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"I'll be f… Fine."

"I'm serious, don't worry about it. You know me, I'd never do that."

"I jus- I mean things aren't really; well NORMAL. I don't wanna stir up more than I should. Y'know?"

"Zib, just, shut up. Mean it in the nicest way. I regret even saying it. I like my friends in one piece."

I think he lit up a little when I said friends. At least he LOOKED up, finally looking into my eyes for more than a second. Without another word, he threw his arms over me and drew me in for an oddly sober hug. A quick squeeze, and he let me go, drawing out with his hands still on my shoulders. He locked eyes for just a second, and then walked off back to his bandmates. I didn't really know what to do. Just slump my shoulders, and see if I could get some dinner from the diner upstairs.

. . . . . . . . . . .


	2. Chapter 1 and three quarters

"Hey there Rocky. Why so dour?"

Dead-end job. Poverty. Mutilation. Loneliness. Inescapable, crushing dread.

"I'm fine Ivy. You still got the stove running?"

"'Course I do, it's only 11. Good thing you came when you did, some slumps just left."

"Yeah, well, some slump just arrived. Mind making me something?"

"Sure thing. Pancakes, I assume?"

"…Naaah. Just give me whatever you feel like cooking."

She gave me a weird look first thing, but turned around to cook after the sincerity. I put my mind on other things, like escaping. The big question was was I gonna do it again. For years now I've just sorta skipped town whenever shit got bad. There wasn't anything in my way now. Even though I worked on an illegal operation with enemies, I wasn't exactly going toe to toe with Capone. Most of the people we faced didn't even have all their toes. Hillbillies and parasites, dotted with the occasional poser for spice. Mitzi didn't have the resources or the want to try and track me down if I skipped. I doubt she'd even notice to be honest. The thing I was concerned about was what meager friendships I'd managed to scrape together inbetween hits to the face. I've been closer to Zib and Ivy than I have my own cousin these past few years, even if there were a few patches in our quilt, like what just happened. I was in that wishy washy regret period now, clasping my hands and thinking over all the things that coulda woulda happen. As long as I could repair my status with Zib I'm proof positive I could get him to skip with me, and the band too. Ivy could barely get out of her own house, I doubt Florida was an option. I could say some sweet words and slip onto the ether with Zib. I could fix this whole thing. I could become a normal, law abiding man and go to school. I could punch a bear. Could, would, should; who the fuck cares.

"You okay over here…?"

That's how she found me. Sitting there with my muzzle smashed into the table, hands pulling my ears, grimacing at the woodwork. She had a plate of something; I couldn't see from this angle. Smelled like meat and batter. I stared at her for a few seconds with the one eye facing her, watching her own eyes wandering over me. She set the plate down, sliding it next to me. I could see her lips purse but she didn't say anything for a bit.

"You need something to drink I'll get it for you."

She walked back to the counter. Bacon and waffles. Copious syrup to drown it in. I asked for no pancakes, and, well, I did get no pancakes. She was still crafty with it though. For all my hunger I still didn't seem to have much of an appetite, poking at the food this way and that with my fork. I mostly used it as a distraction while I took out my little book and jotted down an entry. I was gonna call it a diary but that just seems so girly. Tried calling it a log but I wasn't manly enough. "The book" seemed to stick so far. For all its names it was just a place for me to collect my brain should it get scattered across an alleyway by a bullet of confusion. I pulled out the pen lodged in the spine and wrote down my argument and my obsession with negativity today. A side-effect of having this thing was that my handwriting has improved. The first few pages were written by an epileptic one legged chicken; now they were on par with a 12 year old. My writing seemed to focus on coddling; I wanted to hug Zib and tell him sweet things to make him feel better after crushing him like that. A lot of flowery, fairy-like stuff I never had the gall to actually tell people. Wrote about my contempt for Mitzi. Wrote about my sour mood. Finished off with some plans to hop a train out to New Orleans.

It'd been maybe half an hour since the food arrived; been scratching at the paper ever since. Heard the bell ring a few times, people coming in for something. The diner was slow but it was Times Square compared to what lurked below. Nobody sat near me and everybody was quiet. Kinda liked it like that; much better than drunken rambles and random notes from the band. A page and a half filled with my tiny, scrappy handwriting. I flopped the book down and looked around me for once, noting the stuffy old people and the bored Ivy. I didn't wanna talk to anybody still, and I didn't have anything to do. Opening it back up, I dashed a line below my entry and set about doodling in the space there. Not sure what time it was, but when I was interrupted I knew it down to the second. I saw a shadow move on the table and noticed the outline; large ears and pointy sides. Snapping the book shut, I spun around and came face to face with Zib's shoulder. I spun the other way and smashed my muzzle straight into him. He backed up a bit, a stupid grin on his face. His eyes hadn't left my book.

"I love your use of words."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"How much did you read."

"Not enough."

"…"

"You should get a new pen, that one is pretty scratchy."

With that, he walked back behind the counter and to the speakeasy downstairs. I got up to follow him, pocketing my book and leaving the plate. Ivy frowned at me as I went past, probably angry over the food. As I walked down the steps I couldn't help but rub my face. Just something about it I guess.


End file.
